Émilie could not take her eyes off the widow Scarron’s fingers, which played with the pearls of her rosary, bunching them up and then letting them fall in soft clinks against each other.
“The first of the two choices the king offers you is the usual punishment for such treachery as yours, treachery that results in calling the good name of our divinely appointed sovereign into question. Many whose crimes were less serious have suffered that fate, and, should you choose it, you must consider yourself fortunate not to have forfeited your life. The punishment I speak of is to have your tongue cut out of your head so that you can spread no more lies that portray His Majesty as anything less than he is, the supreme, infallible ruler of France.”
Émilie went pale and swallowed. She pressed her lips together protectively, suddenly acutely aware of the tongue that lightly touched the backs of her teeth.
“You may choose this fate,” continued Madame de Maintenon, “after which you would be allowed to return to your husband and live in peace for the rest of your days.”
Émilie’s head began to buzz. She could feel the blood rush to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her toes. Run! her body said to her. But there was nowhere to go. And besides, her legs felt like posts that were stuck into the floor. Her muscles were stiff and weak at the same time from resting for so long, and she was having trouble simply standing.
“In his great magnanimity, and in recognition of your extraordinary gift, His Majesty the King offers you another choice, which would not deprive you of the ability to speak—or to sing. You may choose another path.” Madame de Maintenon drew closer to Émilie and looked her directly in the eyes. “Be aware that this is a very great privilege, to be allowed to choose your punishment for such a grave offense.” She backed away from Émilie again and then turned so that she no longer faced her and said, “You may join the Carmelite sisters, where you will live in seclusion and silence, save on those occasions when you raise your voice to the glory of God. You will then be required to sever all ties with your family and friends, living only to serve the Lord.”
Émilie looked down at the floor. The frantic pace of her heart began to slow. So that was it. The battle was over her voice.
“You have twenty-four hours to consider your decision. At the end of that time you will come to me and inform me what that is. After you have done so, I will take you before the king, to make your apologies to him. It was his special wish that no mention be made of this choice, else others would expect to be so handsomely treated.” At that, the widow Scarron nodded to one of her footmen, who left the room. A moment later Marie came and took Émilie back to her chamber on the floor above.
Once more alone, the widow Scarron knelt at her prie-dieu. “Please, my Lord, make her choose the right path. Make her choose to be your servant, to enter the convent, and preserve that voice which is so delightful to His Majesty. If you bear me any love at all, hear me now. Amen.”
Thirty-two
True eloquence consists of saying everything that is necessary, and nothing that is not.
Maxim 250
Émilie stood in the middle of her room under the eaves in the old château. At first she opened her mouth and tried to make the muscles in her throat work without producing any sound. But she had forgotten what happened when she sang—or perhaps she had never really noticed before. Very quietly and slowly, she hummed one of Charpentier’s melodies, drawing out each note as long as she could, feeling how it was to let the sound resonate in her body. Émilie closed her eyes, concentrating on the back of her throat, on the precise feeling of the opening that was only achievable with the full use of her tongue. Her mouth tingled, her lips buzzed.
After a few minutes of this quiet, blind practice, Émilie went to her mirror. She formed words without making any sound at all, just to see if she could tell what they were simply by looking at the shapes her mouth made. She looked ridiculous.
Still gazing at her image in the mirror and making not a sound, she pretended to sing. Her mouth opened in a parody of speech, holding its shape for unnatural stretches of time. She tried to make the right expressions to go with the music she heard in her mind but which did not emanate from her body. She looked like a child pulling faces.
The idea of not having a voice—it was inconceivable. But the alternative. How would that be? Separated from Marc-Antoine forever, never to see his loving eyes, never to feel his gentle embrace. She gazed at herself in the mirror. She was pretty. Her eyes were clear and blue, her cheeks soft and round, but firm. She ran her fingers gently over her forehead, her eyebrows, her eyelids, her cheekbones, down her nose, along the line of her chin, noticing how everything fit together, harmonized. And the warm cast of her skin was set off perfectly by her light blond hair.
Slowly, she let her hands continue down from her face. Émilie stroked her throat, feeling the place where music came from, then measured the narrow circumference of her swanlike neck with her fingers. Gently, tenderly, she let herself enjoy the softness of her own skin, just as her husband had on those nights they had been together.
And what of the days? What of their dreams to sing together? It pained Émilie to think of how sad Marc-Antoine would be. She knew that her voice was important to his career, but she also knew that, even if she could not sing, he would still love her. If only she could have had her baby. That would have given their life together some purpose, some meaning. If she chose the first punishment, how would it be if she were unable to talk to him, unable to make music, and, as the doctor had told her, unable to have his children? Would a life like that be enough for either of them?
Émilie lost all track of time. After a while she heard a light tap on the door. She called out, “Come!”
Marie entered with her supper on a tray.
“Where is François?” Émilie asked. The girl curtseyed politely and made a gesture indicating that she did not know.
Still she did not speak. Here I stand, Émilie thought, a woman condemned, with less freedom than she has. I am less than she, and yet still she does not speak. “Can you not talk?” Émilie asked.
The girl’s downcast eyes and expression of sadness answered the question.
“Why not?”
In some part of her, Émilie did not really want to have the answer, not now, when there was nothing she could do about it. But her morbid curiosity got the better of her. She waited, patiently.
Marie opened her mouth. Inside was the jagged stump of a tongue.
Émilie made it to the washbasin just in time to vomit into it. Marie picked up the bowl and then left Émilie alone once more.
François was not surprised that the blame for all that had happened landed on him. He did not really expect Madame de Montespan to leap to his defense, although he knew it was because of her that he had been sent to Pignerol and not the Bastille or the Châtelet. Although he was confined, the room was hardly less comfortable than his quarters at Versailles, and he didn’t have to work. True, the food was not as good, and already he had developed a nasty cough because of the damp, but they let him have books, and paper and quills and ink.
He had expected this, after he wrote the letter to Marcel, and after he went to see Charpentier at Madame de Montespan’s behest. He had even packed a little bag with his most important belongings, because he had not known if he would have time to think about it when they eventually found him out. It was all very civilized. The guard bowed to him, he remembered. It was that young Hugues Martin, whom he had known since he was just a boy. They had a nice chat in the coach on the way to the prison.
François did not regret his actions. In fact, he felt very much at peace, knowing that, for once, he had done as his conscience dictated.
“Monsieur, your letters.”
They gave him a valet too—which was more than he had ever had at Versailles. “Thank you, Henriot.” Probably the usual petty gossip from court. One of the lady’s maids wrote to him daily, glad of the opportunity to spread the dirt about everyone. François uns
ealed and opened the letter.
Cher François,
It grieves me to tell you this. I know how fond you were of the little singer. She is here, and they say the king-or at least, Madame de Maintenon, which is even worse-is livid with her. There was something about a stolen brooch, and treason. My friend, I am truly sorry to have to say it, but …
François covered his eyes with his hand. In his retirement, the tears came very easily.
It was evening, and the one candle he was allowed each day had almost burned down. François held the paper over the flame and watched as it caught fire, suddenly illuminating his cell, casting his shadow against the stone walls.
It had not been worth it, after all. He had not saved her. And now there was nothing else he could do.
What really rankled in St. Paul’s stomach was that Madame de Maintenon didn’t even have the courtesy to give him the news in person.
“Will you want your pistols, Monsieur, or just the sword?” The valet, Jacques, was busy packing up as many of St. Paul’s belongings as would fit in a small, wooden trunk.
“The pistols are not very practical where I’m going. Perhaps I can sell them.”
St. Paul was stretched out on the small bed in his quarters at Versailles. If he hadn’t been sent away—banished, really, although they didn’t call it that—his godmother would have taken him in. At least they were giving him twenty-four hours to make his arrangements. He had to leave the country. The image of Colbert’s unyielding face was still vivid. The finance minister told him that he could either go on a mission on behalf of the king to the colonies in the New World, or spend the rest of his days in prison. All for trying to please his sovereign!
The mistake, thought St. Paul, was in thinking he could outwit the widow Scarron. He wondered if everyone at court realized how much she had the king under her thumb with all her pious nonsense. It was all so much easier when God wasn’t brought into the picture.
“Forgive me, Monsieur, but what of my own things ought I to bring?”
St. Paul sat up. “You? You’re not going with me, Jacques. What would you do in Louisiana?” They had bought his passage on a merchant ship and kitted him out with a musket. Other than that, all he had to fend for himself with was a piece of paper that entitled him to some property in America. Doubtless some useless tract of swamp, infested with poisonous snakes.
The old valet stopped his packing and looked at his master. “But Monsieur, the gentlemen in my family have served the gentlemen in your family for five generations.”
“I’m told there’s no need of valets in the New World.” St. Paul frowned when he thought about dressing himself and taking care of his own personal needs. “They only booked passage for one.” That was a lie; he was told he could bring one servant, and he chose his strapping coachman instead of old Jacques.
With his arthritic hands, the aging servant carefully folded St. Paul’s brocade waistcoat and laid it on the top of the pile of clothes already neatly stacked in the trunk.
“You’ll find another position. The Duc du Maine told me the other day that he was looking for a valet. With any luck, you might even get paid.” St. Paul stood, reached into his waistcoat, and took out a small pouch of coins. “This should tide you over until you’re settled.”
The valet took the pouch and bowed, then turned and walked out of the room. When the door closed behind him, St. Paul let out a long sigh. The light poured in through the window, revealing only the absence of belongings, and the wooden trunk that held everything he owned. At least there would be no interfering marquises in Louisiana, he thought. By all accounts it was a man’s world. And there were fortunes to be made, he had heard.
The door opened and three palace guards entered. One of them hoisted the trunk onto his shoulders and led the way. The other two stood on either side of St. Paul and walked him out of the château.
Among those looking out of the windows when St. Paul climbed into his carriage attended by the guards was Lully. He watched the men tie the trunk onto the back of the coach, and then St. Paul and one of the guards climbed inside. The other guard sat on the box next to the coachman, who urged the horses to a trot right away. Lully stayed at the window until the vehicle was out of sight of the château. Then he stepped away from the window and walked to his desk. He took a fresh sheet of paper from the tidy pile and, using a straight edge, drew staves on it carefully. At the top of the sheet, he wrote the title, “Psyche, Act IV.” It was his new tragédie lyrique, and now Émilie, not Mademoiselle St. Christophle, would be the lead.
The court composer smiled and sat down at his spinet. After writing a few notes on the paper, he picked them out on the keyboard. Back and forth he went, from quill to ebony and ivory, until in about half an hour he had covered one of the sheets of manuscript paper. When this was accomplished, he replaced his quill in its rest, put the cover on the inkwell, and stood.
After placing his best wig on his head, Lully rang a little bell that was answered by Pierre. When the valet arrived, he ran to the composer and wrapped his arms around the man’s thick waist.
“Not now, my love,” said Lully, pushing him away. “I have an appointment, with the king.” He extended his arms directly in front of himself and waited while Pierre placed six rings on his fingers. When this process was finished, the young man held the door open and Lully passed through it. It was time to go and lead the ensemble for a minuet, something to take the king’s mind off pressing issues of foreign policy. That was his job, after all. None of this was for him. King Louis XIV was the only person alive for whom Lully would gladly have died. Or for whom he would, without hesitation, betray another.
Thirty-three
The mercy of princes is often nothing more than a policy to win the affection of the people.
Maxim 15
During the twenty-four hours that Charpentier drifted in and out of delirium, Marcel, Madeleine, and Sophie tried to think of a way to find out what was happening to Émilie at Versailles. But Sophie’s sources had proven unreliable in the past, and without being able to read or write, Marcel and Madeleine could only pray that their sonin law would recover quickly and help them get information about their daughter’s whereabouts. Just under two days after Émilie was removed from the Bastille, Charpentier’s fever broke and he insisted on getting dressed and taking a fiacre to Versailles. Each step of the process exhausted him, and it was difficult to put his chemise, waistcoat, and coat on over his still wounded shoulder. He stood up, and then had to rest for a while. He dressed, and then had to sit quietly in the parlor for about an hour. It would be difficult to disguise the fact that he could not move his left arm.
“You must not go so soon! What good will it do for Émilie if you kill yourself?” Madeleine argued with Charpentier.
“You don’t know what they—St. Paul especially—are capable of. Émilie has no one to protect her. I must go. They must see that I am not simply going to let her be taken from me without a murmur.”
There was a knock on the door below. Both of them froze, listening intently. They heard the landlady’s voice. She mounted the stairway and tapped on the Charpentier’s door. Lucille opened it for her, and when she had gone, came into the parlor with a letter in her hand. She gave it to Charpentier.
“What does it say?” asked Madeleine.
It was on very heavy paper and sealed with a large quantity of red wax and a stamp that bore the fleur-de-lys. “It says I am to appear before His Majesty. Today.”
“Does it mention Émilie?”
Charpentier let his hand drop, as if the piece of paper were instead a lead weight. “No, it does not. And now it is no doubt too late. But still, I must go.”
He looked up from the letter to face Madeleine’s level stare. It had been a year and a half since Émilie’s parents had seen her. Charpentier found himself wondering whose fault it had all been. It was they who had consented to send Émilie to Versailles. It had been he who had removed her and made it necessary f
or her to hide away, to risk the king’s wrath. They were in this together. Although he did not know what would happen, and he suspected that his attendance at Versailles would alter nothing, he had to keep hoping that at the end of the day, Émilie would be sitting beside him with her arm through his, and her head resting on his good shoulder.
“Heavens! You’re dressed,” Sophie said to Charpentier, having returned from her errands, which included gathering the remainder of her belongings from her shabby room.
Madeleine embraced her. The maid had proven her loyalty and gained the respect of both Marcel and Madeleine. “He has been summoned to Versailles,” she said.
Charpentier held out the letter for Sophie to read.
“Where is Marcel?”
“Gone to fetch a coach,” said Charpentier.
The luthier came back a few moments later, and Madeleine and Marcel helped Charpentier stand. From the top of the stairs they watched him take each step with his wobbly legs. “Bring me my daughter,” Madeleine said, and then looked away before he could turn around and see the expression on her face.
All the way to Versailles Charpentier tried to work out what to say when he was brought before the king. Should he be indignant? Respectful? Pleading? Desperate? He had no way to know what was appropriate. Besides, Lully had been spreading lies about him, so Émilie told him, and for all Charpentier knew, the king thought he was a traitor. Perhaps I am going to be sent to prison, he thought. Matters were complicated by the fact that he felt very ill. He cradled his bad arm in his good one, but still every bump, every jolt of the carriage sent a searing pain through his shoulder. Charpentier wished that he could fall into a deep, interminable sleep, nestled up to Émilie. But ever since he had recovered enough to understand the entire sequence of events, he had barely closed his eyes.
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